


Starlight

by inber



Series: Inber's Jaskier x Reader Fanfiction [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fat Shaming, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Other, Plus Reader - Freeform, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Self-Acceptance, Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:48:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23958706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: I wrote this request piece from the point of view of a plus sized woman – I am one myself, and have been all my life. Some of the language and experiences in this fic come from a very real place. The process of loving yourself is one that is ever-evolving and will be a lifelong endeavour, but I promise you it’s one worth starting. I tried to capture how it feels to feel like you aren’t worthy or lovable because of your body. I hope it reminds you you’re not alone and I hope the end gives you a little catharsis. Please read tags and take care of yourself.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader, Jaskier | Dandelion/You
Series: Inber's Jaskier x Reader Fanfiction [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840093
Comments: 16
Kudos: 66





	Starlight

You’re not like the other girls.

When they smirk at you and whisper amongst themselves, your mother tells you they’re just jealous. She tells you that you’re perfect as you are. That anyone would be lucky to have your hand.

But still, at dinner, she serves you smaller portions. She frowns when you consider a pattern for a new dress, and suggests something looser. Something to hide within. She finds any and every reason to send you out on a walk to town, up the steep hill. _Good exercise,_ she trills.

So you try. Your stomach snarls in hollow echoes but you ignore it; your thighs sweat and chafe and bleed but you ignore it. Walk more, eat less. Every day you take up the measuring tape and wrap it like the shackle it is around the various thicknesses of your body.

You cry into half of a cobb loaf that you snatch up from the kitchen, curled guilty in the roots of a sycamore tree in the garden. The monster within you devours the crusts, and the fullness makes you hurt. No dinner. Up the hill; down the hill. The bandages brighten with blood.

You’re not like the other women.

They’re friendly when they want something of you, aware that the softness extends past your body and to your heart. You cannot love yourself - _how could you?_ \- but your love has to go somewhere. Outsourced. You press it into the palms of anyone who would take your hand. _Please_ , you beg, empty of eye, _please love yourself. For me._

They take of you. You, who cannot say no, who cannot be anything but a consolation prize; you freely give your labour and time for the smallest recognition. You’re honoured to be a bridesmaid at your schoolmate’s wedding - until you overhear her say how good she’ll look, standing next to you.

And still you show up at the ceremony.

The hollow of you grows. Your thighs scab and bleed. You visit your mother and she is thrilled when you tell her you’ve lost an inch off your waist. You have to tell her - you have to tell somebody - because _you_ don’t feel proud. And you need _someone_ to feel it, so it won’t be a waste.

You hoard affection like a magpie collects glittering trinkets. You patch yourself with kind words and tumble into love like a drunken tight-rope walker, free with your affection, until the net no longer safely catches you. Until the men you’ve kissed in private will not talk to you in public. Until you’re told, again and again, that you are so smart, so funny, so kind – but you’re just _not right_ for them. And they are sorry. They tell you that you deserve better.

You learn this means they believe that _they_ deserve better. That they use you as a mirror; you, giving and gentle, reflect the best of them. When they turn you down, they’re speaking to an ideal version of themselves as you stand, polished and quiet, an object to be used behind private doors.

For awhile, this shapes you. You accept second-best. You take to bed with wine-drunk men who sate themselves with the plush flesh of you, spilling over with compliments in the quiet dark confessional of your bedroom. How good you feel. How soft. How they love your hips, your breasts; how _woman_ you are.

In the morning, you are a secret. In the wake of a mistake, you don’t chase their affections. You pretend not to see when they look away at market. You tell yourself it’s okay when they produce flowers and cheek-kisses for other women. You are happy for them.

Sometimes you wonder what it feels like to wake up in the arms of someone who wants you in their bed. Sometimes you skip lunch, dinner. Sometimes your thighs scab so badly that you can’t walk for days.

You watch the people you know pair off like swans in springtime, rings on fingers. You stop accepting second best. You stop accepting anything, or anyone, at all. The pursuit of your affection is exhausted, and in the lactic acid sting of it, you take up all of your bed, and put the second pillow away. Viciously, you combat crushes or idle romantic thoughts. You grind them to dirt with the truth of your reality. The silhouette you cut is not one that people fall in love with.

This you know as a verse etched on your very bones. You know it because _you_ don’t love yourself. You never have. You were never given a chance.

Your work occupies you, simple as it is – tavern tending, cooking, and cleaning – and in your spare time, you work on polishing your mind a gilded gold. Voraciously you read, ever-learning of the world you’ve never seen. Your wit is whip-lick quick, and you’re proud of your last bastion, the only accessory that you might consider beautiful. Patrons tell you you’re in the wrong profession – you should be a scholar, or a professor, or a politician. But you know how cheap the currency of language is.

You know that compliments are fragile, feeble things. Not to be trusted. Never to be believed.

Hope has hurt you too many times.

There is talk about town when a musician arrives. You know of him, of course you do; the local bard that frequents your tavern often sings his songs, tales of great adventure and clever quips. He sings about things you’ve never experienced; love and pursuit and the grand dance of destiny. Other things, you are familiar with; rejection, and unrequited desire.

When you see him, you wonder who in their right mind would ever turn him away.

He’s tall, boyishly handsome, built with lightly corded muscle that advertises his active lifestyle and years of travel. When he smiles, it’s a precious polish of ivory, something cheeky and daring. His eyes are of lake-water, clear summer blue, pools to rest beside in the midst of a hedonistic heat.

The other women fold and fawn and flirt with him, and he’s just as charming as his sneaky metaphors. From afar, you watch him laugh with them, touching shoulders, accepting compliments and dealing them out like Gwent cards. You admire the craft of his lute, and translate the elvish carvings on the wood with curious eyes. But you don’t dare approach him.

What a pointless exercise _that_ would be.

At work, you are tending the bar when he plays. The whole place is packed, and he masterfully manipulates his audience, having them cheering and clapping, or listening in quiet contemplation at his will. You’re unable to tear your eyes from him, unless serving a patron, but you’re certainly not the only one. His performance carries on well into the night, until there is almost nobody left but the few lushes that are nearly unconscious, and the bard himself – who, you note, has incredible tolerance for liquor.

“Hey, love,” He approaches the bar, and you look up, “Do you have any decent wine?”

“Depends what you’d call decent.” You muse, turning to look at your selection with a disdainful eye. “I’m afraid I don’t own the place, and my suggestions to import—” Gods, you’re rambling. “Hm. How do you feel about merlot?”

“Absolutely delightful.” He purrs, and you nod, picking up a clean cup. “Will you have a drink with me?”

That catches you off-guard, and the only thing you can think to blurt out is, “Why?”

He shrugs, and looks around. “Everyone else has poor stamina. I’d like the company.”

 _Ah_ , you think. You’re the last choice. You’re used to that. But he is a guest in town, a man of fame, so you suppose you should feel flattered that he’d even want to converse with you. With the ghost of a small smile, you pour a second cup. “Our bard does not do your work justice,” You offer, “He gets the inflections all wrong. Leans too heavily into the bridges. It was a pleasure to hear the songs from your mouth.”

He beams. “You’re too kind, my lady. Do you play, too?”

“I am no lady, Sir Jaskier,” You correct him, and raise your shoulders in a shrug. “No, I am afraid I don’t. I sing sometimes, though.” As soon as you’ve spoken the words, you want to take them back, because he’s brightening with interest, and you have no idea why you confided your guilty pleasure in him at all. “Er, badly. I sing badly.”

“ _Pbbfft._ ” He blows a raspberry, and takes a sip of wine. “Bet your voice is just as your face.”

“Right,” You agree, “A disaster.”

He nearly chokes on his second mouthful, and he coughs, before squinting at you. “What?”

You snort, and take a sip of your own wine. “Nothing. So, Sir Jaskier, what brings you to our little town?”

“Jaskier,” He corrects, “And I haven’t had the pleasure of learning your name.”

“Who said my name is a pleasure?” You say.

He frowns. “You’re not very nice to yourself, you know.”

“Should I be?” You ask, deadpan. “You don’t know me. I could be a horrible person.”

“You’re not though,” He says, “I can tell.”

You hate the gravity of his tone, and the way his eyes seem to pierce right through you. You take a larger sip of your wine. He regards you for a long moment, before heaving a dramatic sigh.

“ _Fine._ If you shan’t gift me your name, I’ll give you a nickname.”

You think of all the monikers you’ve worn in your life, all the unflattering animal comparisons, and the monster names. You wince. You’re about to confess your name, when he decides.

“Faeinn.”

Stunned, you simply blink at him. “Pardon?”

“It’s elder speech for—”

“For _‘star’_ , I know, but surely it’s a name more suited to you.” You say, visibly puzzled.

“Wait, you know elder speech?” He seems impressed. “What are you doing working as a barmaid?”

You shrug. “Not many jobs as a translator in town.” Smirking, you swallow more of the wine. “We’re not exactly a hive of activity here. You may have noticed.”

“Does your spouse not wish to settle somewhere else?” He asks, and you openly laugh. He does not understand your mirth. “What?”

“Sir Jaskier—”

“Jaskier.”

“Right. Do I look like the kind of…” Sighing, you let the thought trail off. “I’m not married.”

“Oh.” He looks surprised, and you wonder if he’s taken acting lessons, because he’s terribly good. “No one worthy in town?”

Again, you want to laugh, but you suppress it. “Jaskier, you don’t owe me any platitudes. I’m just the barkeep.”

“Platitudes?” He echoes, and then his brow creases. “Faeinn, who made you feel this way? I swear, I’ll find them, and make them eat their own kneecaps.”

The visual amuses you briefly, before you realise he’s being serious. You cannot understand why. “Nobody did, Jaskier.” You say, slowly.

“No broken heart? No lovers? Why do you speak of yourself in such an unkind way?”

Part of you wants to reach over the counter and slap him. The other part wants to crawl into the cabinet behind you, close the doors, and wait for death. Instead, you settle on glowering. “Have you need for eyeglasses, Jaskier?” You say, lowly.

“None. I see perfectly well.”

“Then you _know_ why I am unwed and without prospects.” You hate that he’s making you say it out loud, hate that he’s drawing you into some kind of vicious game, and that you’re actively participating.

“I actually cannot _begin_ to fathom.” He whispers, and reaches across the counter to grasp your hand. “Faeinn, you’re—”

“Don’t.” You snap, jerking your hand away as if his touch burnt you, “Don’t you _dare_ tell me I’m smart and funny and wonderful and then walk out that door without looking over your shoulder. Gods, for an Oxenfurt graduate, you’re denser than a day-old loaf of rye. I’m not like other women, Jaskier. Never have been. Never will be. I know that, I accept that. Whatever you’re doing – it’s cruel, and I don’t deserve it.”

He looks as though you’ve punched him in the face. His gorgeous features are drawn, solemn, and he’s quiet. In the wake of your self-loathing rage, he has nothing to say. You finish the wine, and slam the cup down.

“Faeinn—” He says, but you hold up your hand.

“Wine’s on the house. Well met, Jaskier.” You hurry out the back, to the kitchen, where he cannot follow. You don’t want him to see you cry. You don’t want to dissect his words and find the rude, unwanted seed of hope amongst them.

He calls out the nickname he’s given you, but after a time, you hear him collect his things, and the tavern door shut.

—————-

You don’t have to work the next day, and you let yourself sleep as late as you like, lazy with misery. You uncover the mirror only to wash your face, and then throw the cloth back over it. It’s been like that for years; you hate catching unwanted glimpses of yourself.

When you open your front door to put out a bottle for the dairy-maid tomorrow, you nearly scream when the figure of Jaskier tumbles over your threshold. He seems as startled as you, apparently interrupted mid-nap. Of all the houses in town, he had to find yours tucked on the outskirts to take a kip in front of.

“Fuck’s sake!” You hiss, “You scared the life from me. What are you _doing?_ ”

“Faeinn,” He clears his throat, scrambling to his feet, “I asked around town for your house. You didn’t answer when I knocked, so I, uh, thought I’d wait.”

Bewildered, you stare at him, and then bark the next logical question. “Why?”

“Because,” He says, “Last night. You were cruel and undeserving.”

You want to moan. You don’t want to deal with his wounded masculinity, but you feel a sense of obligation, considering he’s visiting. If you offend one of the first famous musicians to grace your town in years, you’ll never hear the end of it. “I spoke harshly to you.” You grit out, “And I apologise.”

“No.” He frowns, “You spoke harshly to _you._ You were cruel to _you._ And it’s wrong, and you need to know that I think it’s terrible.”

This is new. You place a hand on your hip, vaguely aware you are in your nightdress, hair ruffled from sleep. “Okay, I don’t understand your game.”

Frustrated, he growls, and takes a step forward, cupping your face. You freeze up, feeling the heat of his body so close to your own. You can smell the cologne he favours; something of cedar-wood and warm cinnamon. His eyes are as grave plinths, stern. “You’re beautiful.” He whispers.

“I’m _n_ —”

“No.” He continues, “Don’t you _dare._ No, you’re not like the other women here. But do any of them speak elder? Do any of them know about foreign wine? Do they have a laugh that sounds like an unspooling thread of spun starlight? And I guarantee you _this_ , Faeinn. Go to any small, ignorant, end-of-the-world town, and you’ll find someone there like you. Someone hurting and overlooked. Someone who was bitten by love so many times that they don’t dare try and feed it anymore.”

Your eyes have filled with tears, and your mouth is open. Perhaps you should speak. But you’ve nothing to say.

“But if you leave this little place, Gods. There’s a _world_ of people like you. Gorgeous, bright, luscious people. Cities full of them. Wedded, unwedded, whatever they choose – but they are glorious, darling. Just like you. I promise it.”

He thumbs away the salty streaks on your cheeks, and you sniffle. “Y-you waited… all day on my porch… to tell me this?” Is all you can manage.

“I’d have waited all night, too.” He vows.

When you break into tears, he pulls you to his chest, and you let him. He holds you like you’re the most precious thing in the world, like he’s been charged with guarding a royal treasure. He hums, and lets you weep until there’s nothing left of your torment; just a dull ache, with one bare seed.

“I don’t…” You wipe your eyes, “I don’t know _how_ to love who I am.” It’s a tiny confession. He smiles gently.

“That’s okay.” He murmurs, “Other people will love you, until you learn. If you let them.”

Nodding, you place your hands over his, and squeeze them. “Thank you.”

“I leave tomorrow for another town. Terribly short notice, I’m afraid, but I’ve always got room for a companion. If you’d like.” He brushes a wayward lock of hair from your face.

“Sometimes I walk slowly.” You say, hesitantly.

“Sometimes I take six hour naps.” He replies.

“Sometimes I drink too much ale.” You grin.

“Sometimes I eat all the bread before I make camp.” He’s smiling, too.

“ _That’s_ treasonous.” You gasp, and he laughs.

“Truly it is, Faeinn,” He agrees, “But you’ll come to forgive me for it.”

And every time, you do.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I can also be found on tumblr: @inber


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